Papa's Bundle of Mystery
by The Butterfly Mistress
Summary: "The lanky detective was currently pacing back and forth, wearing a hole in the carpet, of St. Bart's maternity ward; awaiting the arrival of his godchild. The other occupants in the waiting room, awaiting their own bundles of joy, glared up at him intermittently as he passed by. He deftly ignored them. Sherlock was aware that the average birth could last anywhere from six..."


A/n: This was done by request of Shadow Cat Mistress. I have NOT stopped writing for Subconscious Comfort, but I hit a snag and needed a way to get the juices flowing again. I do have limited time to write at the moment, due to the college semester coming to an end and needing to study for last tests and final exams. Hopefully, I'll have some more time to sit down and write soon and I hope to have another chapter posted for Subconscious Comfort soon.

In the mean time, I hope you enjoy this little piece of angsty fluff. It was supposed to be just fluff, I failed, but it turned out ok in the end, I think. Please leave a review with your thoughts. Feedback is always welcome.

It has not been betaed and I don't own any of the characters, save for the baby. The baby's name is my creation. The cover picture is by **NautilusL2** on Deviant Art. Not mine.. I don't have that artistic ability.

I hope this is up to, and maybe even beyond, your expectations, Shadow!

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**Papa's Bundle of Mystery**

Sherlock Holmes was not one prone to nervousness, but he was experiencing anxiety like any ordinary human being during this, what should be, exciting event. The lanky detective was currently pacing back and forth, wearing a hole in the carpet, of St. Bart's maternity ward; awaiting the arrival of his godchild. John had asked him to be godfather of his and Mary's child a few months prior, and according to his blogger, his brain had blanked out. It was a similar occurrence as when he had been asked to be best man. It was the second title he was both shocked and honored to hold; the two roles he took more seriously than anything: being John's best friend, and John's child's godfather.

Anyone outside of their immediate friends would say he was unfit to be either, and really, Sherlock couldn't agree more. However, he worked hard daily to be worthy of each position. He tried to be more considerate of John, and keep him out of especially harmful situations; likewise, he read up on all the child rearing techniques and baby information. He even stored diapers, a crib, and age appropriate toys in John's old bedroom in the flat.

The other occupants in the waiting room, awaiting their own bundles of joy, glared up at him intermittently as he passed by. He deftly ignored them. Sherlock was aware that the average birth could last anywhere from six to twelve hours, give or take a few hours, but he couldn't bring himself to relax. Mary had only been in labor for four hours, and no one had come out to inform him of complications or of either of their deaths. At least he had the benefit of panicking alone, so to speak. Lestrade wouldn't be arriving until after his shift at Scotland Yard and Mrs. Hudson would be getting a cab in the morning. Molly was already here, but she was downstairs in the morgue, taking care of paperwork.

He sighed, plopping down into one of the uncomfortable and ugly seats, sitting angled to where his leg could hang off the arm of the chair. He had his doubts about his ability to be the kind of godfather the child would undoubtedly need. However, he had vowed to do his best and be there for John, Mary, and little whatever her name would be. Both Watson's assured him that he wouldn't have to give up any of his work, but his experiments might have to be toned down during the youngster's visits. To prove their point, they had bought Sherlock a 'baby wrap carrier' for when he would have to leave to a crime scene while babysitting. He had practiced putting the item on and taking it off so many times that he had perfected it to an art. Though he had been forbidden to actually chase after criminals during any time period he was child minding. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the stupidity, as if he would ever endanger the little one.

The impatient genius glanced at the clock, growing bored of the wait and of the insipid idiots surrounding him. He straightened up in the gaudy, red seat, placing prayer hands beneath his chin, and began to wonder through the halls of his mind palace. Pressure between the two appendages and fingertips brushing a touch against the inferior side of his jawbone, grounded him to reality, while still allowing concentration mentally.

Endless halls led to lavish rooms, filled and organized with boundless knowledge. He took a right turn down the wing of sentiment, and came to the three largest quarters of the hall. The extravagant nameplates informing the occupant of its inhabitants: John Watson, Mary Watson, and Baby Watson 1. The rooms were made to expand, as Sherlock doubted he would or even could, ever learn everything there was to know about his 'significant others'. A fact he very much adored about them all. Even Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson's and Molly's rooms were able to expand if need be.

Time held no meaning inside his mind, he could roam around for hours and it seem like on a few minutes had passed by. He was grateful, as it would help time speed by for him, and he could ignore the looming boredom that had him squirming and wanting to rush away to an experiment.

The parents had wanted to keep the gender a surprise, and promised a worthwhile reward, if Sherlock would forego going behind their backs to find out for himself. Therefore, the baby's room held no special color, gender specific features or belongings. Not that Sherlock would be buying the child dolls or plastic action figures, oh no, only items that taught it something, such as books or learning toys. The only exception was the pirate paraphernalia, for when it's old enough to appreciate it and not gnaw it to shreds.

A nurse sauntered into the waiting area, bringing an abrupt halt to Sherlock's thoughts. He shook his cranium, curly locks dancing in the air the movement created, to rid himself of the lingering cobwebs clinging to his brain. He looked toward her expectantly, sure that it was now his time to be the one to jump from the ghastly anticipation and greet the newest addition to his makeshift family. Unfortunately, the group to his right, were the ones graced with the arrival of their awaited bundle. Sherlock growled at the audacity of a mere infant being in charge of everyone's life at the moment. 'Wouldn't the mini mongrel be upsetting the daily lives of its caregivers, both immediate and distant, soon enough?' Why then, must it prolong the delivery date? Surely it must have run over by hours by now… Not even born yet and it was dictating Sherlock's life to an irritating degree.

He sagged back into the chair with a groan. Perhaps he could go and visit the morgue, see if Molly had a fresh corpse for him to dissect and inspect… No one could blame him, and John would know where to find him… Despite the desire to do anything, but continue the monotonous existence molded into the wretched furniture, Sherlock didn't budge from his spot.

A weary figure slumped down next to him. Sherlock was ready to snarl and scare the uninvited individual away, the last thing he needed or wanted was another idiot to try and engage him in some dull conversation. He glanced up through hooded eyes. Lestrade was collapsed by him, shoulders drooping; his body screaming in protest and exhaustion. Forehead creased as eyebrows rose to his hairline; time must have really passed if the detective inspector was greeting him. The last time the detective had checked, Lestrade had still had six hours left 'til the end of his shift.

"Lestrade," Sherlock acknowledged.

The older man grunted his greeting. "The kid make an appearance yet?" he asked, voice raspy and tired.

"Obviously not, Inspector," Sherlock replied, rolling his eyes. "If the child had been born, do you really believe I would still be sitting in this abysmal chair, waiting, surrounded by other apprehensive family members?"

Lestrade gave a low chuckle. He heaved a heavy sigh, firmly patting the younger man's bony knee. "Of course, you're right. Nothing short of Moriarty could keep you from John and Mary's hospital room were the new ray of sunshine be ready for company." He paused for a moment, contemplating his next words, "I'm proud of you, Sherlock. You've become a good man."

Sherlock nodded, barely perceptible, acknowledging the compliment, yet unsure what do afterward. He settled on gratitude, "Thank you." Fingers drummed on the armrest, agitated with being pushed out of his comfort zone. He hesitated to continue, "I owe that in part to you. Had you not aided me in the beginning, it is unlikely that I would still be alive to have become who I am today."

Greg flinched at the reference to Sherlock's drug days. It was his turn to squirm in unease, "I can't say it was my pleasure, but I was certainly glad to be able to help you, kid. Couldn't just sit by and watch you waste such a gifted life."

Sherlock became transfixed by the pattern on the carpet, "Graham, I am not so certain I am going to be successful in helping to raise this child. I know nothing of child rearing. I've read up on the subject, of course, but my lifestyle is not ideal for nurturing young people, physically or mentally."

Lestrade ignored the erroneous slip of his name. "No one is a professional when it comes to children, Sherlock." He raised a hand to refute the protest, "There just isn't. Do you know why?" At the responding shake, he continued, "Because children are a puzzle in of themselves. Each one is unique. Sure there are developmental standards and theories, and general information that works for the majority of them, but nothing is concrete for each and every one of them. It's a constant learning experience."

Sherlock was still skeptical. Even if Lestrade was correct, there were still quite many more suitable for his position in the unborn child's life. If there was no way to learn, but to make mistakes and possibly botch up his godchild, then he wasn't sure the Watsons had made a wise decision…

Upon seeing the doubt, the DI tried again, "Think of it as an experiment-"

"My godchild isn't something I can clean up and try again!" Sherlock interrupted, indignant" I only get one chance to not completely muck this all up!"

The older man raised his hands, placating. "Okay, okay, then think of the experience as solving one of your convoluted puzzles. Children are full of mysteries to be analyzed and solutions to be sought." Sherlock appeared to be considering his words. "Really though, Sherlock, you're going to be great. This kid is going to be happy and know that it's well loved. You're not going to mess up, overall. Sure, you'll make mistakes, everyone does; however, that doesn't mean the little one is ruined for life."

"True. Even though most might disagree, even with all the mistakes our parents made, Mycroft and myself didn't turn out that horrific."

"That's right," Lestrade returned. "I think your brother's power complex and your superior complex, along with the lack of social skills from either you, stem more from your massive intellects, than poor upbringing." He vacillated, trying to think of a way to voice his opinion without being offensive. He had no doubt the both Holmes parents put forth more effort than most to raise respectable, well-adjusted adults.

Sherlock hummed in response and they both sat in a comfortable silence. It was another half hour before a nurse came in for them. The perky nurse's arrival had Sherlock jumping out of his seat, ready. Lestrade laughed at him, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder.

"Family of Watson?" the lady called out, eyes roaming over the room's occupants.

"Yes, that would be us," Lestrade informed her, nudging the eager detective toward her.

She guided the two gentlemen down a hall, made a right turn down a second corridor, past the nurse's station, and then another right turn, Sherlock noted. She had them stop at a closed door, entering herself, and reclosing the solid barrier behind her. It was only minutes later when the nurse ushered them into their desired destination; however, Sherlock had counted both the ceiling and floor tiles around him, twice. He had also deduced a nearby doctor's infidelity by the perfume clinging to and exuding from his skin and wardrobe. He detested the glaring yellow on the walls, and the contrasting, checkered, light blue and eggshell white of the floor gave him a headache. By the time he entered Mary and John's room, his anxiety lay forgotten, instead a scowl formed across his features.

John raised his brow at Lestrade in askance. The DI shook his head with an exasperated chuckle. Mary laughed outright, disturbing the sleep of the baby in her arms. The child gave a soft whine and an angry shake of a tiny fist in protest and warning. Mary shifted the bundle, shushing and soothing the infant back to rest. Once Sherlock's eyes found the little person he had waited so long to meet, his sulk transformed to pure adoration.

John grinned proudly at his best friend, in a protective stance by his wife and new child's side. Lestrade gave a gentle push to Sherlock's back, forcing the awestruck man nearer to the new family. He edged further in himself to get a closer look.

"Would you like to hold your godchild, "Sherlock?"

The mere thought of having something to fragile, so helpless, so precious, cradled in his arms, struck a chord of horror deep within, freezing him in place. Most people wouldn't trust him to be within feet of a child, much less hold one. To be honest, he didn't trust himself to not drop one either. However, all eyes were on him, looking expectant, and Mary was giving him an encouraging smile. He was supposed to do something now, wasn't he?

"Sherlock?"

He jolted from his thoughts, fear and doubt radiating off his lithe body. He nodded, clearly uncertain, and took the proffered bundle. The swathed child snuggled deeper into Sherlock's warmth. The movement, so natural, so fluid, it brought a smile to his face. Self-deprecation and unease fell away as he supported the delicate delight closer, shifting from foot to foot in a slight rock.

"You're a natural, Sunshine," Lestrade assured, breaking the comfortable silence.

"Yeah, I do believe you have yourself another fan," Mary commented, giggling at the sight before her. The love she was feeling for all those that inhabited her hospital room could not quite hide the exhaustion etched on her features.

John laughed, gazing at his firstborn lovingly. "Already prefers you over us, mate," the blogger teased, mock indignant. "Hasn't threatened to beat you or wail, yet."

"Don't be ridiculous, John," Sherlock half-heartedly rebuked. "Offspring are programmed to trust and love their parents above all. They even know their parent's voice or noises while still in the womb," He stated, haughtily. "They also seek warmth on instinct. I have merely given my godchild a heat source, which lulls, rather than disturbs, the sleeping process."

"Yes, well, clearly you've done your research. Though, I think it's high time you meet your goddaughter." John brushed a feather-light fingertip across a soft cheek, cooing at the little one, "Come on sweetheart. Open those gorgeous eyes for daddy and papa Sherlock." He ignored Lestrade's eye raise at his wife, as well as her, 'What can I say, I sort of married them both, didn't I?' shrug.

"Don't be absurd, John. I'm clearly already meeting he-" Sherlock broke off, registering what his blogger had just told him. "Her?" I have a goddaughter?" He asked, eyes wide in awe and unadulterated joy. The three others grinned, the huge smiles overtaking their faces.

Tiny lids sprang open, revealing golden brown orbs, soft and gentle, much like her father's. His heart constricted, his breathing hitched. In that instant, getting stuck in the child's honeycombs, he knew that there wasn't anything he wouldn't do for her. He felt the same about John and Mary, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. Heck, he'd even admit he felt similarly for Molly and Mycroft. However, this little angel was in a category all her own. He smiled down at her, which elicited a gurgling grin from tiny, pink lips. His chest tightened again.

"Looks like she's already got him wrapped around her little finger," Lestrade commented with a laugh.

John leaned in, voice barely above a whisper, "Sherlock, I would like to introduce you to, Elizabeth Locke Watson."

Sherlock forced a chuckle at the ridiculous tribute of his name, to cover the tears threatening to spill. He continued to sway back and forth, adding a bounce to his rythym. She smiled, content, as she cuddled back against him. His godchild, no, his goddaughter, an honor he would forever work to be worthy of. He'd barely known the angel for half an hour, but he loved her all the same, and he would, always and forever. His dearest Watson, little Locke.

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I hope you enjoyed! Please leave a review with your thoughts. Feedback and constructive criticism is always welcome.


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